at the foot of the Third Avenue Bridge where the pedestrian walkway meets street level, a low chain-link gate standing open onto Bruckner — the bridge's steel truss rising behind her, the Harlem River a flat grey-green band visible through the truss geometry, wind moving a loose flap of plastic sheeting tied to the fence — one step off the bridge ramp onto the sidewalk, turned back to look at the river through the truss — she has left the bridge but has not faced the street yet
The shadow-stripes were the whole reason I crossed.
I'd come over the Third Avenue Bridge on foot — nobody uses it, which is the only recommendation it needs. The Harlem River below was moving the way rivers move when they have nowhere particular to be. Grey-green. A little ashamed of itself. In Sevilla the Guadalquivir had that same patience, just warmer, more certain of its history. This one carries its history sideways, half-submerged, not offering it up.
S's forearms resting on the bridge railing, jacket sleeves pushed to the wrists, the grey-green Harlem River below moving slow and flat, far bank blurred
Bruckner Boulevard under the elevated was something else. The overcast had flattened everything except for where the structure threw its shadow-stripes down onto the pavement — parallel, wide, the spacing of something designed without caring how it would look. I stood in them. I put my jacket back on. The stripes moved with the light the way shadows only do when you're paying attention, otherwise they're just there and then they're not.
Wide parallel shadow-stripes from the elevated highway falling across Bruckner Boulevard asphalt — thick bars of shadow and pale concrete repeating into the middle distance
under the same elevated structure, a large idling freight truck parked against the curb, its cab and exhaust stack filling the left third of frame, steel girders crossing above, the pavement visibly vibrating with low engine frequency — a narrow gap between the truck's rear and a concrete pillar forms the only passage to the grey street beyond — paused in the gap between truck and pillar, one hand against the pillar's concrete face, head half-turned toward the truck — she has stopped inside the threshold and has not yet decided to continue
A truck idled under the structure for most of it, engine settling into a low frequency that I felt before I heard it. A dog on a short leash stood at the edge of the shadow and didn't cross into the sun. The street smelled like exhaust and somewhere underneath it something damp, biological, the same note the park had yesterday but harder, more industrial about it.
Nobody stopped on Bruckner for a view. I was the only thing standing still.
inside a narrow counter-service coffee shop on a South Bronx commercial block, the counter scarred formica with a single crack running its full length patched in something that has since darkened to near-black, a small window behind the counter fogged with condensation, a handwritten menu taped to the wall above the espresso machine — holding a foam cup in both hands without drinking, looking at the crack in the counter — the cup has not been raised
I had a coffee eventually from a place on Willis where the counter had a single crack running its whole length, patched with something that had since darkened. The cup was foam. I accepted it without negotiating.
A foam cup of coffee sitting on a cracked formica counter — the single crack running the full length of the counter visible behind it, darkened filler in the seam, no saucer
When I finally moved, the stripes were gone. The light had finished whatever it was doing and the pavement was just pavement again.
What she wore
day2-scene1
I wore the cargo pants across the bridge — there was no one to dress for, which meant I could dress exactly right.
day2-scene2
I stood under the elevated structure for longer than made sense — the coat was the right call, the shadow-stripes kept moving and I kept not leaving.
day2-scene3
The skirt felt like the right gear-shift — same palette as the whole day, just rearranged, which is the most New York thing I know how to do.